


Chronicling An Artist’s Love Affair

by Space_and_Thyme



Series: Winter's Child [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adopted Daughter, Art Exhibit, Bucky finds this entire situation absolutely hilarious, Domestic Fluff, Field Trip, Gen, M/M, mentions of nude drawings, sappy fluffy moments, some truly awkward moments for their daughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: Violet Barnes-Rogers' class is headed on a field trip to the National Art Gallery to see a new exhibit... As it turns out, the exhibit chronicles ten years of love between the artist and their model.A very familiar model...





	Chronicling An Artist’s Love Affair

“We’re going on a field trip next Friday…” Violet hedged carefully. Still wary of asking for anything from either of her adopted parents. She didn’t want to be a burden.

 

“Oh?” Steve looked up from his tablet, where he was scanning through multiple news outlets. He smiled gently.

 

The girl began to worry her lip, and Steve suddenly realized just how much she’d absorbed from Bucky. He blinked and dispelled the realization that she was becoming their daughter in actions as well as name.

 

“It’s… kind of expensive – I don’t have to go.” She immediately interrupted herself, hazel eyes widening slightly.

 

Steve’s expression softened as he saw the look in her eyes. He knew she’d been through a lot, and that she’d been punished for asking in the past. But that wasn’t with him. That wasn’t with Bucky. He remembered the days when they had _nothing_ but each other. When he’d been almost always ill with one flare up or another, and Bucky was working his fingers to the bone to be able to support Steve. Their shared apartment, their single bed, the days that Bucky went without eating because he was bound and determined that Steve would keep his energy up so he could regain his health. He’d always hated that Bucky had to do so much to support them, because he himself was unable to.

 

But that was who Bucky was back then – and though things had definitely changed, Steve could still see the glimmers of that golden man in his husband. He saw it in the way he had taken to Violet, and had brought her into their lives, without asking permission, and without apology. Bucky was always a protector. He would do anything needed to not only protect, but also so that Steve could not only survive, but thrive. And Steve knew that Bucky would be the same about anything Violet could possibly ask for. He knew this, because Steve felt the same way about their adopted daughter.

 

Steve shrugged his shoulders easily. “That doesn’t matter – you’re going if you want to.” He smiled warmly.

 

“It’s… well admission is $7, but the bus costs $20… I know that’s a lot…”

 

Steve blinked. “I might still hardly understand the rate of inflation over the last 75 years, but I’m not worried about $27 for the sake of a field trip… Where are you guys going?”

 

“The National Art Gallery. There’s a new exhibit, and my art teacher managed to convince his husband, the history teacher, that it would be worth taking us.”

 

“The National Art Gallery! Oh you’re going to _love_ it!” Steve perked up, putting the tablet aside completely as he sat up. “So much history, and truly inspiring works.”

 

“So… so I can go?” Violet looked up hopefully. “You don’t mind?”

 

Before Steve could answer, Bucky’s voice shouted from the kitchen. “WE DON’T MIND!”

 

Steve snorted, “What Buck said.”

 

★

 

“There’s probably a gift shop at the end of the tour.” Steve realized on the following Friday.

 

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Violet shrugged her shoulders timidly as she sat at the breakfast table on their communal floor of the Avengers’ Tower. She picked up a slice of whole grain toast on which was laid sliced avocado that had been drizzled in honey. She didn’t want to ask for more money, even if her plan was to buy something for Steve since he loved the National Art Gallery so much.

 

Steve wasn’t thinking about it being an issue. He shifted in his seat next to her and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. Opening it, he fished out a twenty dollar bill and handed it to Violet. “Here.”

 

Her brows furrowed and she looked up at Steve, even as Bucky stood just behind the island of the kitchen, watching with a quirked brow as he drank his morning coffee. “What – no. What’s this for?”

 

“To get yourself something with? Please?” Steve smiled hopefully. He just wanted his daughter to be comfortable. He just wanted her to know that she could buy herself anything she wanted – and if she couldn’t do it, that he and Bucky would get her what she wanted and needed. That she was loved and taken care of.

 

Violet swallowed tightly, her gaze flickering to Bucky. He nodded as he swallowed his coffee, giving his permission, though she didn’t need it. “Okay… thank you, Steve.” She forced a smile and put her toast down, before hugging him tightly.

 

“It’s no problem, Vi.” Steve wrapped his arms around her and returned the tight hug. He kissed her crown. “Make sure you finish your breakfast – you don’t want to be lightheaded in the gallery.”

 

“Yes, _mom_.” Violet found her footing, and teased him, even as he glared at her. Bucky snorted softly in amusement.

 

“Come on, _Rebenok_. I’ll drop you off.” Bucky put his empty coffee cup down ten minutes later. He picked up her bag as they walked towards the elevator, before glancing back at Steve. “I’ve got some errands to run, Steve. I’ll not be back before three, so I’ll pick Violet up from school again.”

 

Steve wanted to ask what Bucky had to do, but knew better than to press his husband. Instead, he nodded. “Be careful, since I know you’re taking the bike.”

 

Bucky flashed a grin. “Of course, _Captain_.”

 

Violet rolled her eyes to herself as a smile pulled at her lips. Her parents were so ridiculous with each other. She half wondered if they had always been like that.

 

★

 

Bucky stopped Violet, just as she was about to walk away from him as he half-sat on the Harley. “Come here.” He smiled gently, and beckoned her over. Violet’s brows furrowed together, but she stepped in close to him. “You know we love you, don’t you?”

 

Violet blushed, looking down a bit like Bucky had chastised her. “I do…”

 

“And you know you can ask us for _anything,_ right _Rebenok_?” Bucky reached out and cradled Violet’s jaw with his right hand. He pulled her a little closer and leaned until his forehead was against hers.

 

The girl threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him tightly; gripping his black leather jacket. “I know, but –“

 

“No _buts_ , _Rebenok_.” Bucky pulled bak and kissed Violet’s forehead gently. “You also know that Steve is still … pretty dictated by what he used to know, before going into the ice, right?”

 

Violet snorted slightly. “Yeah…”

 

“Well… to him $20 is a good amount for a gift shop.” Bucky snorted, and reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He drew out several bills and forcibly pressed the into Violet’s hand as he whispered into her ear. “Buy whatever ya like, and whatever isn’t spent, keep for yourself.” He kissed her cheek, before withdrawing from her. “Better get a move on, the bell’s about to go.” He gave her another grin, before putting his helmet back on over his messy bun.

 

Violet only looked into her hand once Bucky had pulled away. Her eyes widened in surprise. He’d given her $200 in twenty dollar bills.

 

★

 

Violet moved along with her thirty class mates, walking through the gallery slowly. Her teacher and his husband, Mr. Puckle and Mr. McGillis, were nearby as the group looked at various pieces.

 

“We’re now entering our main exhibit” their tour guide, a woman in her thirties with bleached blonde hair and a name tag that read _‘April’_ directed the students’ attention toward the dividing doors in front of them.

 

Violet was excited – if only because she appreciated that neither Bucky nor Steve had thought this trip was a waste of time and money.

 

The exhibit itself was housed in the main gallery. Several large temporary walls had been artfully arranged within the gallery to provide extra surface space for the mounting of the artworks.

 

The sign proudly positioned in the entrance way read: **_Love as Worship: A Collection from 20 th Century America’s Primary Unknown Artist_**

 

The artworks in question ranged in size from three by four inches, to larger works on eighteen by twenty four inch papers. They were each simple – at least to the untrained eye. Rendered in a mixture of graphite, charcoal, conté, and ink, each individual page bore detailed studies of the human figure.

 

“As you can see, the artist of these pieces poured not only effort and skill into these images, but she also captured something intangible.” April spoke up as she turned to the student tour group. “While we do not know the name of our artist, or of the model, we do know the years that she was working.

 

“Two years ago, under the floorboards of a condemned building, a couple found a cache of forty sketchbooks – as you can see, they ranged in size. Despite the dust and some climate related damage, mainly foxing on the paper, which we were able to mitigate in our conservational lab, the collection contained approximately _six thousand_ individual drawings, spanning from 1933 until late 1943.”

 

A murmur of surprise went through the crowd; shocked at the sheer number of pieces found in crumbling old sketchbooks. Violet glanced to the display wall closest to her; her eyes dancing over the three main images before her. These were all completed on several sheets of eighteen by twenty four inch paper, which allowed the deceptive simplicity of the studies to fully entrance the viewer.

 

Violet paused, as her eyes caught on the first study. It was nothing much – an image of a strong jawline in profile, a hinted at ear and the lines of a strong and lean throat. Dark smudges suggested brunet hair on the model. Her eyes immediately moved to the next image – this time the front view of the same jaw, though the model’s mouth was in clear focus. Full Cupid’s bow lips with a natural pout as they remained ever so slightly parted…

 

“As far as we can tell, all six thousand drawings are of the same model.” April moved around to the display which Violet was staring at. “Some of the drawings, such as these, are merely studies – _many_ of the drawings are studies of individual pieces of this model. His sharp jaw, his full mouth.” April gestured reverently towards that Cupid’s bow.

 

And Violet _knew_.

 

“Over here,” April moved away from the first display and to another, “are studies of his eyes and his Romanesque nose. There are also studies of his hands.” She gestured vaguely around the room once more.

 

“We couldn’t _possibly_ fit all of the work into this exhibit, as six thousand individual drawings is a prolific collection. And while we do not know the artist’s name, nor that of the model, it’s obvious that she was in love with him.”

 

Mr. Puckle and Mr. McGillis were standing together – holding hands as they listened to April speak – each wearing a soft smile. Mr. Puckle, the art teacher, stood with his head laying on his husband’s shoulder.

 

Violet’s brows furrowed as she looked between the artwork, her teachers, and April.

 

She _knew._

“Excuse me?” She spoke up, demanding the tour guide’s attention.

 

“Yes?” The blonde tour guide smiled brightly.

 

Violet’s brows knit together. “Why are you so sure that it’s a _woman_ who drew all of these?” she gestured around the exhibit as the other students glanced at her, their own brows furrowing – some in disgust, others in true curiosity as the thought hadn’t occurred to them.

 

April looked surprised; she’d thought it was rather obvious. “Because all of these drawings have been rendered with a lover’s hand. Whoever she was, she very clearly loved her model – she spent _ten years_ filling a sketchbook every three months with _nothing_ but _him_.” She shook her head.

 

“That _still_ doesn’t tell me it _has_ to be a woman.” Violet folded her arms over her chest and shifted her weight onto one hip as she cocked a brow at the tour guide.

 

The two teachers were now watching their student intently, waiting to see where this went. Their hands still locked together, though now their grip had tightened.

 

April spoke without considering her audience. “Of course it was a woman – who else could possibly render images with such love and adoration?”

 

Violet stared at the woman for a long moment, as the rest of the crowd seemed to wait on baited breath. Finally she broke her stony silence with one, monotonous, phrase. “People are gay, April…”

 

A snicker ran through the other students, as April turned pink with embarrassment. She stammered, as she glanced around – and caught sight of the two _obviously_ married teachers who were turning crimson with barely contained laughter – they couldn’t show it, and they would need to make a point of publicly condemning Violet’s actions, though the agreed with her wholeheartedly.

 

“I… well I mean –“

 

“What you mean is that you never even _thought_ that it might have been a _man_ drawing the love of his life, did you? It never occurred to you that it might have been a man worshipping his husband…”

 

April tried to save herself, poorly. “Men couldn’t have married in the 1930s; if they were caught they would have been arrested-“

 

“And _yet_ , funnily enough, the law can’t stop people from loving one another. And you can call each other _husband_ without actually _being_ married, you know. People have been doing that for centuries.”

 

April turned a deeper shade of cerise, before having had enough. She turned on her heel and marched out of the exhibit, leaving the students and their teachers to their own devices.

 

Mr. McGillis eased his shoulder from under Mr. Puckle’s shaved head as he released his husband’s hand. Smirking, he stepped towards Violet. “That was, uh… that was _something_. And While I can’t _officially_ condone that behavior, uh, I guarantee that Mr. Puckle and myself agree with your assessment and view point one hundred percent.”

 

Violet blushed a little – her shoulders coming up embarrassedly at the praise from the history teacher. Around her, the other students had taken to examining the collection of artwork – seeing it now, perhaps, in a different light than they had upon entering the exhibit.

 

Mr. Puckle stepped forward. “I have to ask, what on earth made you point that out in the first place?” He was smiling behind his black, thick-rimmed, glasses.

 

“Oh, um…” Violet paused. She didn’t know just how much of her home-life that the school had been made aware of. She knew that they had her parents listed as James and Steven Barnes. Obviously the school was aware that she had _two fathers_. But… were they aware of the fact that James and Steven Barnes were actually _James Buchanan Barnes_ and _Steven Grant Rogers? The Winter Soldier_ and _Captain America?_

 

It would be too difficult to explain if she took that route.

 

Instead, Violet shrugged her shoulders lightly. “Honestly? The drawings remind me of my Dads. See, one of my Dads went to art school when he was younger, so sometimes on a lazy Sunday afternoon he’ll sit and just draw picture after picture of my other Dad.”

 

“That’s really very sweet.” Mr. Puckle smiled and glanced quickly to his own husband, before turning back to Violet. “Have they been together long?”

 

“Oh, almost a century.” She laughed, and her teachers took it as a loving exaggeration.

 

Violet had been telling the truth, but it didn’t matter.

 

They spent another thirty minutes in the exhibit, going through the mounted drawings and reading the little placards that described the techniques and media used.

 

By the end, there was no doubt in Violet’s mind. The drawings were all of James “Bucky” Barnes, meaning they had been created by Steve Rogers. She was sure after the first sight of Bucky’s Cupid’s bow mouth, but it was confirmed when, at the end of the exhibit, right before the entrance to the gift shop, there was one last drawing on display. It wasn’t the original – the original had been too small, composed in a nine by twelve sketchbook – but a printed copy approximately thirty inches wide. To anyone else, it was simply a soldier in his uniform – an officer, in dress pinks and greens if they knew the difference, with his peaked cap set over one eye. Violet knew him right away, though she had never seen any image or photo of Bucky – no, _Sergeant James Barnes_ – from before his Howling Commandos days. She knew him, instantly, for the look of consternation in his pale eyes. It must have been drawn the last time that Steve had laid eyes on Bucky, before his deployment – and she could see it now – the last gaze towards home as the ship departed, taking Bucky to the European theater. It broke her heart, knowing what she knew of her parents. But, in the end they were together again, though it had taken seventy years.

 

The portrait was rushed, but it was very clearly of Bucky in his dress pinks and greens. And he was dashing – while he was certainly aesthetically pleasing now, with his haphazardly tied hair, and his predilection for wearing his jeans slightly too low, and v-necked tees that somehow remained too baggy in the torso, and too tight across his shoulders and chest – _this_ Bucky, the 1940s Bucky, was _a_ _look_.

 

Violet could understand why Steve drew that last portrait – not just to remember the day that Bucky left, but to capture that last sight of his dashing partner.

 

Herded into the gift shop, Violet’s mind blanked out as she tried to think what she could _possibly_ get for Steve – after all that’s why she wanted to buy something in the first place. But, what was she going to do? Hand him something and go _“Oh, by the way the exhibit is all of your personal drawings of your husband from the 30s and 40s… here’s a tote bag!”_ no, that wouldn’t do.

 

Sighing to herself, with Bucky’s money burning guiltily in her pocket, Violet’s eyes wandered over the table of books. Most were on the history of art in the early 20th century, as well history of the time – the days leading up to Hitler’s Third Reich. But, one large tome caught her eye. It was large – letter sized pages – and thick. At least a thousand pages. It was simple, hardbound in white canvas covered cardboard, with a dust jacket. The front of the dust cover bore a couple of the drawings that she had seen in the exhibit itself, and the title was printed in a deep rich blue against the white. **_Love as Worship: 6000 Artworks Chronicling An Artist’s Love Affair. 1933-1943._**

It was a compilation of _all_ the drawings found in the books under the floorboards of what must have been Steve and Bucky’s old Brooklyn apartment. All six thousand – five and half thousand more than were on display in the exhibit itself.

 

Violet carefully opened the book – it was a sketchbook for lack of a better description – the pages were entirely taken over by the drawings, with only a few minimal lines of text here and there to describe the technique and media of the original, as well as the year it was drawn. She flipped for fifty pages, and found this to be same. She glanced at the price tag – it was staggering to her. But… it was Steve’s work that he’d long thought lost. And, if she was being honest, she too wanted to look through the images of Bucky. If only to better understand the man he was now, by knowing the man he had been. She also wanted to better understand Steve, and she could know him better now, through the love he’d wrought onto the paper – his love for his husband, even eighty years before they officially wed.

 

The $130 price tag didn’t seem so bad after all.

 

★

 

When the bus returned to the high school, the military green Harley Davidson was already parked in the pick-up zone. Violet glanced out the window, and spotted the motorcycle. But the man perched on it _wasn’t_ Bucky. She did a double-take. _No_ , it _was_ Bucky, but it wasn’t the same man that had dropped her off that morning.

 

Half-sitting on the bike, with his legs outstretched, Bucky tapped his left foot on the concrete as his head bobbed and nodded in time with a tune playing in his head.

 

Violet couldn’t believe her eyes as she slid the tome into her bag, and exited the bus. Her gaze was locked on Bucky – she’d been so used to him with his long dark hair either floating around his shoulders and framing his face, or gathered back behind his head - this was no longer the case. The change was so drastic, that Violet didn’t recognize him – even in his black leather jacket.

 

He tracked her with his peripheral vision, as Violet stepped off the bus and paused, looking at him. He gave her a moment, before he turned to look at her.

 

Violet was caught completely off guard. Bucky’s long dark hair had been completely shorn off. The back and sides were clipped close, while the very top remained twice as long as the sides. Cut this much shorter, the near black tone of his hair receded back to its natural chocolate tone as the sun was now able to glimmer against the strands. He’d combed his hair back, styling it with a small amount of hair wax, to keep it at bay as it found a middle ground between the Winter Soldier’s free locks, and his 1940s pomade-slicked style. But even stranger than the already shocking nature of his haircut, was his clean shaven face. The scruff that Violet had been so accustomed to, was completely knocked away. There was barely even a faint shadow left of his beard growth.

 

Bucky looked easily a decade younger – the change softened his features and changed the pale steel of his eyes to a warmer, though stormy, sea grey.

 

He smiled softly, his gaze warm as he looked at his adopted daughter. “Hey, _Rebenok_. How was the gallery?”

 

She continued to stare at him for a moment – the images from the exhibit flashing through her memory. If there had been _any_ doubt in Violet that the model had been Bucky, it was entirely vanquished now, seeing him completely cleaned up.

 

She snapped out of it after a moment. “Uh… it… it was… it was good.” She squeaked a little.

 

Bucky quirked one dark brow as he studied her, intently. “What’s wrong, _Rebenok_? Ya've a look on your face.”

 

Violet shook her head, forcing her thoughts away and answering him at the same time. “Nothing, Buck… just wasn’t expecting…” she gestured to his appearance.

 

“Felt like a change.” He shrugged easily.

 

“Think Steve’s gonna like it?” she smirked a little.

 

Bucky winked.

 

Exiting the bus, the other students glanced toward where Violet was standing with Bucky as he half-sat, straddled on the Harley.

 

One boy came to a halt, having glanced once, and then focusing his full attention on the two of them. He smacked his buddy in the arm.

 

“Ow! What the hell Clarence?” Billy hissed as he looked from his shoulder where Clarence had smacked him, to his friend, before following the gesture towards Violet and her father. His brows furrowed together. “What-“

 

“Does he look… familiar?” Clarence studied Bucky from a distance, as a couple of other students crowded him and Billy, now catching up to this conversation.

 

“That’s Violet’s Dad, right? Well, one of them at least.” Helen’s brows furrowed as she looked at Bucky.

 

“Is it?” Jimmy’s brows furrowed tightly together. “I thought he had longer hair.”

 

“Guys you’re completely missing my point!” Clarence hissed.

 

“Well then spit it out – and don’t hit me again!” Billy sniped.

 

“ _Look_ at him! Doesn’t he look _familiar_?”

 

They studied him for a moment, before Melissa’s eyes widened. “Oh my god…”

 

“You see it, right?” Clarence glanced sidelong at Melissa.

 

“That’s… but that’s not possible…” Helen shook her head.

 

“It’s been like _eighty years_ …”

 

“Dude… Come on, her Dad’s got a bionic arm, pretty sure _anything_ is possible at this point in time…” Billy finally realize what it was they were talking about.

 

“Violet’s Dad… how the _fuck –_ “

 

“Language!” Mr. Puckle gasped behind the group of teenagers. They jumped, automatically.

 

Melissa turned to look at the teacher in earnest. She pointed back towards Violet and Bucky. “Mr. Puckle, _look!_ ”

 

The art teacher followed her gesture towards the Harley, which Bucky had removed himself from. He was currently taking Violet’s bag from her, and putting it into the saddlebag on the bike. “Oh, that must be one of Violet’s fathers. Hm…” he paused a moment as his own husband stepped up beside him. “I thought he’d be older…” he shrugged.

 

“Older? He must be at least a hundred.” Billy deadpanned.

 

“Billy! Lord! You could be nicer!” Mr. Puckle huffed in exasperation.

 

“What? No! No I mean… Don’t you _see_ it?”

 

Mr. McGillis’ brows furrowed as he looked father and daughter. Bucky had given Violet her helmet, and had straddled the bike once more. He was still standing, as he looked out at traffic – he noticed the group of students and teachers looking at him, but if it bothered him, he made no outward sign of it. But he paused as he looked out at the world around him. And Mr. McGillis saw it then, in the brief moment, the short stillness where Bucky was not moving. “…Well, that would explain why Violet was adamant about it not being a woman who made all those drawings…”

 

Mr. Puckle’s brows furrowed as he glanced between Violet, her father, and his own husband.

 

When he saw the questioning look in his husband’s eyes, Mr. McGillis gestured towards Bucky. “Did you see the last drawing, right before the gift shop entrance?”

 

Mr. Puckle frowned, “Of course I did… the Officer in his pinks and greens… wh-“ His eyes widened as he looked at Bucky – catching the sight of him just before he put his helmet back on. In that moment, Bucky was a mirror of the soldier’s portrait. “Holy shit…”

 

“Language!” McGillis teased, as the Harley revved and pulled out of the pick-up zone, Violet on the back of it, hugging her dad around his waist.

 

★

 

After parking the Harley once more in the garage of the Avengers’ Tower, Bucky pulled Violet’s book bag out of the saddlebag. It was heavier than he remembered it, despite being surprised by it when he took it from her at the school. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t handle it – its weight was nothing to him, but it _was_ more than he figured Violet should be carrying. “Christ, _Rebenok!_ What've ya got in here, bricks? Dark matter?”

 

Violet snorted and reached for the bag, but Bucky lifted it up to keep it from her grasp. “Bucky! Come on, let me have my bag!”

 

“Nah-uh, not until ya tell me what’s so heavy.” He smirked as he elevated the bag again, watching her attempt to jump for it.

 

“I bought a book in the gift shop…” Violet settled back on her heels sheepishly, as Bucky quirked a brow at her.

 

“A book? A _book_ is this heavy?” He blinked. “The hell kinda book is-“ But he saw the embarrassed look in her eye, and dropped the subject. He lowered her bag, though he didn’t give it to her. Instead, he slung it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got it. Better get upstairs – Steve’s gonna be excited to hear about the exhibit.”

 

“You have _no_ idea…” Violet breathed softly, as she walked with Bucky to the elevator.

 

He watched her closely, wondering _exactly_ what that comment was supposed to mean. But, he let it go, for now.

 

In the elevator just before they reached their floor, Bucky gave Violet her bag back, lowering it from his shoulder. The girl grabbed it and immediately reached into it to retrieve her prize. As the elevator doors opened, she scurried out, pulling out the tome as she went; dropping her pack by the door.

 

“Steve! I got-“ She began.

 

Steve, who had been sitting on the couch, looked up and smiled brightly the moment he saw his adopted daughter – but movement behind the girl immediately caught his attention.

 

A ghost stepped out of the shadow of the elevator. A memory, once ephemeral, now wrapped in leather and cotton; made corporeal. A vision of the past, reincarnated into the present.

 

Steve could hardly believe his eyes – beyond the modern leather jacket and the tighter fit of the blue denim (and the fact that eighty years ago Bucky would never have been caught in public in only an undershirt), the man dropping his keys into the bowl waiting on the counter was the man that fell – the Bucky that Steve had lost that unspeakable day in 1944.

 

“Bucky…” Steve breathed, his voice barely audible, as he pushed himself up from the couch.

 

Bucky stopped his movements, having been about to shrug his leather off of his shoulders – hands still holding jacket on the open front sides. His brows furrowed a little, as he gazed back at his husband’s completely lost expression. He couldn’t read what Steve was thinking, and it sent a cold wave of guilt down his spine. Had he made a mistake in altering his appearance this drastically? Swallowing tightly, Bucky lifted his palms in a placating motion. “I know… I know it’s a big change, but it’s just hair… It’ll grow before you know it-“

 

Steve had absently made his way towards Bucky – he stopped two feet away as Violet watched them with a mixture of hesitation and hope. The book of Steve’s art was gripped tightly in her fingers.

 

Cerulean irises moved quickly over the man standing in front of him – the ghost whom he never thought that would see again – whom he’d made peace with never seeing again. Chocolate brown hair, fluffy from a fresh cut and the lightness of its weight. A pristinely shaved jaw – the skin soft and supple from the pampering and precise shave of a straight razor.

 

Steve swallowed tightly around the lump forming in his throat as he closed the distance between himself and his husband; fingertips lightly brushing over Bucky’s cheek as he cradled his jaw with his right hand. His left skimmed quickly up the right side of Bucky’s face and pushed into his dark hair. Relishing in the feel of the soft strands running through his fingers – calling back almost forgotten memories of tender Brooklyn nights lost after the Alps. The emotion flooding Steve’s chest was too much. He pulled Bucky as close as he could – his hand knotting in his husband’s short dark hair as he cradled his jaw and brushed the pad of his thumb over the peak of Bucky’s cheekbone.

 

Bucky closed the breath of a distance; eyes sliding closed as their mouths met in a desperate yet languid kiss. His left arm wrapped around Steve’s waist, pulling him flush against himself, while his warm right hand slid back into Steve’s golden hair. He brushed away the tear that slipped from beneath his husband’s long lashes.

 

Steve’s fingers brushed down the back of Bucky’s head – slipping from his hair and lightly brushing the back of his neck, as he eased back from the kiss. For all of Steve’s strength, and his force of will character, he had a fragility in that moment. He moved only a breath’s width away – his arms wrapping around Bucky’s strong waist. He dropped his head to his husband’s shoulder as he hugged him as tightly as he could manage - pushing aside any lingering fear that he might break him. He just desperately needed to hold him – in case the vision faded and vanished like breath in the winter air. In case, god forbid, he lost Bucky again – in case the last five years had been only a fever dream, and the love of his life was truly lost that day in the mountains. His finger’s knotted in the cotton back of Bucky’s shirt, under the shelter of the black leather jacket. He drank him in like a desperately needed inhale – Bucky’s once familiar cologne filling his senses: a blend of something spicy and sharp laid over a heady base of chicory. All that was missing was the warmth of the whisky and the acrid hint of his Lucky Strikes. Steve hiccupped in an effort to stop himself from openly crying.

 

But, Bucky knew better. Bucky _always_ knew. And, it had been so long since Steve had allowed himself to crumble in Bucky’s presence that now started, it could not be subverted. And if he was being honest, Bucky had missed this dynamic – even though it had always been fleeting. He wrapped his strong arms around his husband, and gathered him as close as possible – lifting his chin up and out of the way as Steve settled into a heavy drape against him; his face in the warm crook of Bucky's neck.

 

Violet watched them shyly from her place on the couch. The book open in front of her on the page she had left off on on the bus. She glance down, and studied the way in which Steve had drawn Bucky – it was from his days as a Welterweight Champion – she knew only because she’d asked Bucky to teach her how to box in with the rest of her training. She smiled softly to herself, and wondered if the dynamic had always been the one she witnessed – she quietly wondered if the scene before her was more accurate – Bucky, despite all of his own issues, supporting the weight of the world and Steve Rogers upon his breast without a thought to his own troubles.  She loved this book – everything about it. It told a story that had been lost to history: of two young men desperately in love in the interwar period. Two young men destined to be together, though fate seemed to have played a horrible trick on them for many years. Two young men – the artist and his model whom he worshipped with every fiber of his being as he captured him with graphite, charcoal, conté, and ink.

 

It centred her, grounded her, knowing that the family that had taken her into their embrace, was one so wholly full of love, that it could not be broken. Even after the most horrendous of happenings. Even after torture, forced amnesia, and a separation of seventy years. If they could come back from that, they could come back from anything. And it meant that, no matter if they bickered, her presence in their lives was wanted, and would never part them.

 

She was wanted.

 

Bucky held Steve close – and while his husband was no longer the 95lbs, sickly, young man whom he could carry with ease, there was strength in his old bones yet. He cradled Steve and rest his chin against his golden crown.

 

The moment of sheer desperation seemed to pass – the vice squeezing his heart loosened, and Steve took control of his own weight as he tightened his embrace on Bucky, listening to him softly hum a familiar old tune. Pulling away after a moment, Steve wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and forced himself to half-laugh. “I’m sorry Buck… I don’t know what came over me.”

 

Bucky knew, but said nothing. Instead he smiled and shrugged his shoulders easily, wanting to dismiss the weight of the emotion. “’Bout time.” He teased. “Ya haven’t kissed me like that in _days_.”

 

Violet groaned to herself as she blushed, listening to them. She loved them, and their love made her heart swell… but she really _didn’t_ need to hear the way they spoke to each other- at least not in _that_ way. Shaking it off, Violet turned the page of the book, and her eyes bugged out. She slammed the book closed with a loud _thwak!_ , immediately diverting her parents’ attention from each other and towards her, as a red blush bloomed over her cheeks.

 

Arms still around each other, Steve pulled away a little more from Bucky, as he turned his head to look towards the teenaged girl sitting on the couch. Bucky’s brows furrowed as his gaze flickered between the bright flush of embarrassment on Violet’s face, and down to the large book in her lap. He quirked a brow as his eyes met hers again.

 

Violet immediately ducked her head, unable to meet his stormy eyes.

 

Steve was at a loss. “What’s wrong, Vi?” realizing his continued embrace of Bucky might be what was embarrassing her, he let go and  turned to fully face their daughter. “I’m sorry, did we make you uncomfortable?” he approached her. His eyes dropped to the book in her lap, and his brows furrowed. “What’s-“

 

“The exhibit was all of your old drawings of Bucky!” Violet suddenly blurted out. The second it was out, her eyes widened, and she clapped her hand over her mouth and groaned.

 

Bucky snorted in surprise. _‘Well… that explains quite a lot…’_

 

Steve’s brows furrowed together as he looked at Violet, not comprehending. “My old drawings of Bucky? What old drawings?” But as he said it, a realization started to flood over him – he recognized the images on the front cover of the book in her lap. He never thought he’d see them again… his blue eyes grew wide.

 

“I’m sorry… I… I…” Violet stammered. “The – frankly terribad – tour guide said that a treasure trove of old sketchbooks were found under the floorboards in a condemned building like two years ago… and they’ve been preserved and turned into an exhibit about how love can be worship or something, and I knew the minute I saw the first few sketches – I knew it had to be Bucky that was the model, which meant that … that you… had to be the artist because no one else would draw that many images of Bucky, and certainly not in the 30s and 40s and –“ she huffed and sagged her shoulders in shame. “And I knew you’d never get the sketchbooks back… so I bought the printed anthology of all the artwork from the gift shop, all 6000ish drawings… I wanted to give it to you as a gift – as a thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But, I’m seeing now that that was probably not a good idea because you’re giving me a look of horror…”

 

Steve shook his head, forcing himself to break his stare. “No, it’s not that… I just… Those were… they were studies, they were…”

 

“Love letters.” Bucky supplied, quietly.

 

Steve swallowed tightly and nodded his head. “They were love letters… I just never thought that anyone other than Bucky and I would see them – and I never thought we’d see them again. I’m just in shock, Vi. I’m not angry.” He smiled warmly as he sat beside her on the couch and put his arm around her shoulder. He pulled her close and pressed a kiss against the side of her head.

 

Violet hiccupped, half a sob and half a laugh. “I really loved the artworks…”, she leaned into Steve as Bucky sat himself on the coffee table in front of them.

 

“Then why did you – _oh_ …” Steve realized as he glanced at the book in her hands. “ _All_ 6000ish drawings…” He swallowed tightly and turned a little pink himself.

 

Bucky smirked, his dark brow flicking up as he tilted his head, watching the look of pure discomfort come over his husband’s face.

 

Steve eased the book out of Violet’s grasp, and started to open it – needing to confirm what he suspected.

 

“Page 121.” Violet squeaked, burying her face in her hands. Steve nodded, his mouth going a little dry, as he turned to the indicated page.

 

He was right.

 

On page 121 was a sketch – a study – of Bucky’s body lying languidly. It was purely a study of his naked torso, hips, genitals, and upper thighs. The rest of his form faded away into lightly ghosted smudges. It had been rendered with a careful and loving hand, with attention focused mostly upon Bucky’s hips and sex.

 

“Ah…” Steve hissed out slightly. “Right…”

 

Bucky’s brows knit slightly as he tilted his head to see the drawing upside down. The sight of it neither upset nor offended him. “When did you draw that one, Stevie? I don’t remember it.”

 

Steve turned pink again, the initial blush easing off before returning with a vengeance. He glanced up to Bucky, but found no judgement in his husband’s face. Still, the answer wasn’t one he really wanted to give. “Uh…” he fought for the words. “I don’t-“ the sass-filled expression on Bucky’s face told him immediately that he didn’t believe him. Steve sighed softly. “The summer of ’35… you were sleeping the heat of the day away.” He swallowed tightly.

 

Bucky’s expression pulled into a tight smirk – a barely contained smile– which lasted only a moment before that predatory grin lit his features. “Oh, is that _so_?”

 

Steve was stammering, looking for the right thing to say. “I’m sorry, Buck! You just had this… beautiful, natural, fluidity to your pose and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop myself.” He swallowed tightly.

 

“You mean you didn’t _want_ to stop yourself.” He seemed almost stern, again, and it caught Steve off guard. But, Bucky almost snorted in laughter seeing the panic stricken look on his husband’s face. “I take it ya saw _something ya_   _liked—_ I don’t _care,_ Steve. You know all you ever had to do was ask, and I’d have done anything ya wanted.” He turned to Violet, who was trying to bury herself in the couch, praying for a quick death. “1935 was still _two years_ before we ever admitted our feelings for each other.”

 

“Oh isn’t that nice…” She deadpanned, trying to get out of the conversation.

 

“I’m sorry, Vi. I know this must make you terribly uncomfortable.” Steve hedged. She nodded. He rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I um… well, from memory… assuming the book has arranged drawings by subject and not date… you… might want to skip the next forty three pages or so.”

 

Violet automatically gagged in disgust, as Steve cleared his throat while blushing, and Bucky threw his head back: howling with laughter.

 

“ _Forty three_ pages?!” Bucky gasped between bouts of laughter. “Christ Stevie, ya really _did_ find something you liked!”

 

“Oh shut up!” he flared red, as Violet pushed away from both of them – wanting to get away from the book.

 

Still chuckling, Bucky gathered up the book and pulled it into is lap as he turned the book right-side up for himself, and turned the page. And turned the page, and turned the page, and turned the page. As he flicked through the pages, his smirk grew. Steve had been basically correct in his assumption – an entire section had been devoted to the drawings of the more intimate places of Bucky’s body. He continued turning the pages, until a certain drawing caught his eye. His smirk softened into a gentle smile as his gaze raked over it.

 

“I’ve always loved this one.” Bucky turned the book back to Steve and Violet. The girl glanced and automatically moved to escape, before she realized it wasn’t an inappropriate image.

 

The drawing, from the early summer of 1940, was Bucky sitting in the window of their small apartment. The living room was hinted at, around him, but the light pouring in from the window all but washed out the world outside except for the barest hint of a fire escape and a building across the way. Bucky was relaxed, left bare foot up on the window sill, as his right leg draped off and left his foot on the floor. His right hand rested on his right thigh, as his left forearm rested against his bent left knee; a cigarette burned away between his left fingers. His shirt was removed, leaving him a fitted cotton undershirt, and his suspenders were pushed off, hanging from his hips. His hair was a little wild – disheveled from running his fingers through it, and he heat of the day. He was gazing out at the world outside the window. The entire piece was rendered with such detail to the shading that it could almost have been a photograph – a young man illuminated in glowing golden summer’s light. The subject was simple, domestic even, but the sheer intimate familiarity of the artist to the model was palpable – beyond even the context of the nude studies.

 

Violet relaxed, looking over the drawing and feeling a sense of peace radiating from it.

 

Steve smiled sadly as he looked at the drawing. It was four years before he’d lost Bucky, back when they still had the world ahead of them. His fingers brushed over the printed face of Bucky in the drawing. “I miss days like that…” he spoke without realizing it. “Free, clear to adore and venerate you… Those are some of my best memories…”

 

Bucky waited for a breath’s beat, before he answered in the same soft tone. “I’m still right here… You have had, and _will always_ have, my assent. And, truth be told… I miss being your model like that, punk.” He smiled warmly.

 

Steve’s shoulders relaxed. Maybe there really was more of his Bucky intact than he’d ever dared to hope for.  


End file.
